Thickey
by oursarah87
Summary: A visit to his parents to tell them the news brings up long buried emotions.


Stepping through the window of Purge and Dowse, he felt a chill run down his spine. He had stood, staring up at the crossed wand and bone plenty of times before, but had never felt quite like this before. How _was_ he feeling? He seemed unable to place a finger on it. It wasn't happiness, or even satisfaction. But it also wasn't the same level of anxiety, even dread, he usually felt upon entering the hospital.

He stood in the reception for a while, watching witches and wizards in lime green robes running this way and that. The Welcome Witch smiled at him, and he nodded a greeting back at her. She knew him well enough by now to know that he could find his way perfectly well. Slowly, he made his way up to the fourth floor. He had practised what he was going to say over and over in his head, but it never seemed right. After all this time, it was the closest they'd ever come to justice, and he wanted them to understand. A tiny part of him still clutched on to the hope that things would get better. That one day, they could have a real, three-way conversation; not just him talking, and imagining their responses in his head.

As he approached the Janus Thickey ward, Miriam Strout was coming out the door. A kind witch, she was one of the healers on the ward, and was always pleased to see him. He had long suspected that she was probably glad to have someone of sound mind to talk to.

"Hello dovey. Come to tell them the news?" she asked, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. He smiled nervously, and went through the door which she held open for him.

The ward felt different; eerily quiet. There were none of the usual nonsensical shouts that he heard when passing by the long-term patients. He was never sure if they were aimed at him or not, and usually passed straight through, trying not to pay much attention to them. In particular, he rushed past his old professor. Just seeing him in such a fragile state of mind made him feel uncomfortable.

At the end of the corridor, he came to his parents' private room. Looking through the window in the door to the room, he saw photographs of their loved ones, past and present, interspersed with drawings he had done over the years. He had often wondered whether they even knew the pictures were there.

His hand closed around the handle of the door, and he took one last deep breath, before entering. His father was sleeping quietly; his chest rising and falling at a steady pace. His mother's eyes seemed to be permanently fixed on the door; always waiting. He stood in the small gap between their beds, and softly shook his father's shoulder.

"Dad? Dad. Wake up, I've got something important to tell you." He saw his father's eyes flicker behind their lids, and knew that he was awake.

"I wanted to tell you about what's been happening. There's been a big fight at school. Harry Potter came back! You-Know… Voldemort. Voldemort's gone. It's all over. Bel…" Feeling his voice break, he paused for a moment. "Bellatrix Lestrange is dead."

His father's eyes were open now, staring at the ceiling. Looking from his father to his mother, he thought he saw a flicker of a smile cross her lips. But it couldn't have been. An involuntary twitch, perhaps. Or could it? Was the knowledge of the death of the last person who made her this way enough to evoke some kind of emotion? He had to hold on to a little bit of hope. He just had to.

He turned to leave, but had an overwhelming feeling that he hadn't said enough, or even the right thing.

"Mum, Dad? I just wanted to say, I…" He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. "I'll see you soon." His hand felt shaky as he placed it on the handle of the door. As he surveyed the scene in front of him, he allowed a tear to escape his eyes. He quickly swiped it away - though all he wanted to do was weep, he knew he had to be strong, for them. He was no longer a child, the war had made that a certainty, but he was still their son, they his parents, and they needed him even if their condition didn't allow them to recognise it.

He needed them too, he told himself as he slipped through the door. He needed them to know that he loved them.

But even if he worked up the strength to tell them, he feared that they may never understand, words they would never be able to return. And that was something Neville Longbottom wasn't yet ready to face.

_Collaboration with Jess._


End file.
